


No Good Without you

by xxSoliusxx



Series: A Guide to Solius's 035 & 049 Canon! [2]
Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: 035 beats the shit out of a couple people, 035 is genderfluid, 035s having a constant moral dilemma, 049s name is florice, 14th century europe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Foundation, i guess, jumps between 035s pronouns like parkour, lol, no spoilers 049 gets shot lmao, relationship is still pretty platonic, they do be traveling doe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSoliusxx/pseuds/xxSoliusxx
Summary: The mask is coming to terms with their partnership with the doctor after a year of traveling together. Being attacked on the road by a few bounty hunters certainly helps closen their odd friendship.
Relationships: SCP-035/SCP-049 (SCP Foundation)
Series: A Guide to Solius's 035 & 049 Canon! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769230
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

The mask heaved a sigh, her hands digging into the rough wood under her palms as she leaned back, staring at the cloudy sky. A pleasantly cool breeze rifled through wisps of her unkempt hair. She’d been stuck in this backwater dimension for a little over a year now, wandering the foreign land with her travel companion. 

She snuck a subtle glance to her left, eyeing the doctor planted beside her on the wagon bench. Dark curly hair peaked out from beneath his hood and his expression remained passive as he gazed blearily at the road ahead. The doctor had proved to be a unique character and the mask found herself seemingly glued to his side as she accompanied him across the continent while he continued to work his doctor magics on the people living in this dimension. 

But...why? Why had she stuck by Florice’s side for so long?

She often pondered this question but hadn’t yet bothered to piece together a conclusion. Let’s see…

For starters, Florice was simply a fascinating individual in the mask’s eyes since he possessed the power to resist the mask’s damaging effects. He’d wear the mask without the consequences of her corrosive properties which meant  _ hypothetically _ the mask  _ should _ have an immortal host. Well...she  _ would _ have an immortal host if Florice was just another normal mindless shell like all the rest in this world. See, Florice wasn’t exactly a host per se since his mind remained intact upon contact with the mask. When worn, the mask and Florice had an odd bond, a mutualistic relationship where both held equal control over thoughts and actions. This was an uncomfortable situation for the mask, who greatly preferred total and utter control over whatever she had. Yet over the months, she slowly found herself becoming more accustomed to the idea of sharing the doctor’s mind whenever he was kind enough to put her on. 

On a similar topic, the mask also found herself slowly becoming attached to the doctor despite her obvious desire not to. She hadn’t planned for things to end up this way but Florice was just...nice. Often he’d listen in to the mask’s rambles or quietly join in conversation. He was generally agreeable and compliant which were traits the mask was quite drawn to. Although, his temperament usually ran the other way. Stony with a cold and stubborn edge. Obviously this didn’t fare very well for the mask’s more persuasive nature. 

Of course in the past the mask had undergone many attempts to worm her way into the doctor’s mind. She wanted total control, especially since the doctor was immune to her damaging corrosive properties. After all, if she’d been able to procure an immortal host, there’d be no reason to keep meddling around in this dimension. She'd tried manipulation, lies, promises...whatever.

Under usual circumstance she would’ve achieved her desires by this point but nothing seemed to phase the doctor. He seemed to gaze straight through the mask’s facade as if it were glass, rather than porcelain. Whether her attempts were blocked by anomalous means or the knowledge of simple psychology, the mask wasn’t sure. 

She’d given up several months back, seeing no reason to continue down that path since her attempts were clearly fruitless and instead began to focus on the entertainment of their travels. Since she was clearly going to be stuck in this dimension for a long...long...time, she’d figured making the best of the world and attempting to form at least...semi-meaningful relationships would provide her with the best experience this place could offer.

The mask viewed Florice as a sort of...unorthodox tour guide...or perhaps a travel companion. Scratch that, a close travel companion. Yeah, that was a more accurate descriptor. Close travel companion. 

They’d been through some rough spots in their travels across the continent including but not limited to: stumbling into hostile soldiers, random thieves and Florice managing to run into the pointy end of a blade with his face...more than once. Even that one specific time the mask somehow managed to get herself stolen and Florice, very begrudgingly had to go retrieve her. The mask could ramble on and on about their adventures. Yet through it all, the two had stuck by each other's side, even now at this very moment. 

Currently, the mask was seated beside Florice atop the front bench of an empty covered wagon filled with straw and pulled by a single horse. The wagon had been the only means of transport the last town they’d visited had to offer. 

Anyways, as Florice held the reins, the mask shifted the swishing fabrics of her grimy faded dress and leaned back, folding her hands behind her head as she gazed at the grey skies. The wagon seat was rather uncomfortable and jolted around a considerable bit since the cart felt literally every single rock and pebble strewn across the road in existence strewn. The clopping rhythm of the horse’s feet in the dirt had long since faded into background noise. 

“Drive faster,” she urged abruptly. “When are we going to get to the town anyways? Feels like it's been forever.”

“Soon,” Florice replied flatly, offering no further information. 

The mask exhaled a puff of air, black ooze cascading down her neck and staining the collar of her dress as she tipped back on the seat. A silence hung between the two of them for a moment, the mask glaring with a sort of frustrated boredom at the grey skies and Florice deadpanning ahead with slightly unfocused vision. Finally, the mask could bear the silence and boredom no longer.

“Floriiiiiiiiice, are we there yet?”

“No.”

The mask paused, listening to the clop of horse hooves before amusedly venturing again. 

“Are we there yet?”

“No!” Florice exclaimed, casting his companion a withering glare with his startlingly yellow eyes. His reaction prompted further antics. The mask’s grin widened. 

“When are we gonna be there?”

“I don’t know–”

“Are we there yet?”

“You–”

“When are we gonna be there? Are we there yet? When are we–”

“I will not hesitate to leave you on the side of the road if you don’t quit the  _ incessant japing,” _ Florice snapped testily over the mask’s chatter. His fingers tightened on the reins. He refused to lay eyes on the mask and instead glared heatedly at the road ahead. Amused, the mask straightened up and turned to face the doctor, peering intently at his side profile. She crossed her legs and rested her porcelain chin in the palm of her hand

“When are we gonna be th–”

“We have to get through the woods. Then it's a couple miles to town,” Florice managed out through gritted teeth.

The mask groaned, throwing up her hands and tipping back once more. 

“I’ve been stuck on this stupid wagon for  _ days, _ ” she complained, kicking up her ankles to rest on the wooden dashboard. She glared at the sky. “This is no place for a person like me.”

“Oh quite the complaining, we’ve been in much worse conditions,” the doctor retorted before side-eyeing the mask with a skeptical brow. 

“You’re a lord, remember? Aren’t you supposed to be great and mighty and able to withstand anything?” He asked drily. 

“Yeah, well, I’d be able to if I had hosts that were better than these lowly peasants,” the mask picked at her ragged dress in distaste. 

__ “Well one of those  _ lowly peasants  _ happens to be driving this cart right now,” Florice glared over at her with narrow eyes. The mask breezily waved a hand. 

“Yes but you’re  _ my  _ lowly peasant. Besides, you’re better than all those dirty street rats because–”

“–You should learn to respect those beneath you,” Florice interjected abruptly. Affronted, the mask swung her legs down and sat forwards with a squinting glare. 

“Well excuse you! Why should I–”

“–The citizens of Alagadda were unhappy with you. I’d assume it’s because of your narcissistic entitlement–”

“No–no. That’s self love and self love is important–”

“–and blatant disrespect towards anyone below your status. I mean, it's no wonder the people revolted beside the Ambassador–”

“–Alright! That’s crossing a line!” The mask exclaimed furiously as soon as the words left the doctor’s mouth. Her shoulders bristled. Black ooze dribbled from the corners of her eyes as she bathed Florice an indignant glare. Florice shrugged, ignoring the outburst and fixing his yellow gaze on the road ahead. 

“The truth is painful.”

For once, the mask froze, falling silent before…

“You little bastard! How dare you speak to me like th–”

“–I’ll speak to you however I please.”

“NO! You apologize right now!” The mask demanded furiously, shaking an accusing finger at the doctor. Florice remained wholly silent, refusing to cast the mask even the tiniest glance of acknowledgement. Fury rolled off her shoulders as glowered at her companion.

Stupid bastard even had a smug look spreading across his expression.

“Hey! Hurry it up doc, I’m waiting!” She snapped her fingers dangerously close to the doctor’s cheek.

“And I’ve got all day to wait!” She proclaimed, placing her hands on her hips as she bathed Florice in a seething glare. He graciously ignored the mask’s fit. 

“I mean it! Apologize right now or I’ll…” the mask paused as she struggled to declare a viable threat. “Never speak to you again!”

If Florice heard her so-called threat, he didn’t seem phased. 

With a dramatic sigh, the mask was forced to resort to other actions besides indignant outbursts for any sort of acknowledgement. She turned toward Florice and inched across the wagon seat, closing the good foot of empty space between them. He gave a small start of surprise as she promptly ducked under his arms, draping herself across his thighs without warning. Her arms hung off the opposite side off the wagon seat and she stared dully at the rough ground flying by under the wagon wheels. Florice continued to ignore the mask’s antics although he let go of one rein in order to press a very small pat of acknowledgement to the messy hair on the back of the mask’s head. 

Finding the doctor’s legs quite comfortable, the mask was quick to drift off in thought.

The doctor was beneath her in a figurative sense, wasn’t he? The mask sighed, idly swinging her arms as she viewed rocks on the road fly by. Her priorities had long since been scattered to the winds. She hadn’t the faintest idea of what actions she should be prioritizing next.

Well, she should be more focused on trying to manipulate Florice, not indulging in the niceties that their companionship brought on. But the manipulation was useless and she really did truly enjoy their friendly, charged banter. Hell, she even liked Florice’s simple presence. 

The mask had never had someone to consider an equal before, let alone a friend. Even in Alagadda, the mask hadn’t been particularly close to anyone. Let’s see...her servants were beneath her and under her total control. Hmm...well...perhaps the King was a friend? 

The mask was a figure in the Hanged King’s Court even before becoming the Black Lord since she’d been the King’s devoted Court Jester…but even the Hanged King wasn’t an equal. He was a good step above the mask which made the mask nothing but a loyal servant, definitely nothing equal enough to be a friend. 

Nothing like Florice. Florice was different. He was an equal...he was a friend…

If the mask possessed the capacity to genuinely smile, she might have been at the moment. 

Yeah...she liked having a friend. Someone who listened to her out of their own free will. That was a rarity. Usually those who listened to her words were forced out of the mask’s will. At the sudden sound of Florice’s voice above her, the mask snapped out of her thoughts. 

“You’re getting ooze all over my robes, would you kindly shove off?” 

“No, I don’t think I will.”

“I’m not asking twice.”

“So dramatic,” with a heavy sigh, the mask untangled herself from the doctor’s lap and straightened up, lazily returning to her seat beside him. Her fingers drummed against the wagon seat. Florice glanced over at her, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The mask reached up, stretching stiffness out of her arms. 

“So, how much further is it?”

The doctor’s gaze returned to the road ahead. 

“We’ll be out of this forest by tomorrow but right now the sun is close to setting. We should find a place off the path to make camp for the night. It’s risky traveling after dark, which you already know.”

The mask snorted, recalling a particular incident a few months back. That fateful time a group of soldiers declared them suspicious for walking on through the night and made an attempt to ‘capture’ them. That’d been a hassling ordeal. 

“Yeah, you got it, doc,” she shrugged, folding her hands behind her head and swinging her legs up onto the dashboard. She tipped back once more and stared at the horizon filtering through the tree trunks, now bathed in a faint orange glow. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate giving minor characters names. This will be apparent throughout all of my fics.

The two continued on down the dirt road, scenery flashing by. The trees here were an odd mix of boreal and deciduous, the greys of the sky now barely filtering through leaves bent over the trail. The sun had fallen behind the trees, bathing the road in shadows. The mask sat forwards, balancing her porcelain chin in the palm of her hand as she observed the hodge-podge of green hues passing by with mild disinterest. Following the road ahead, she could just make out a sharp turn bending the path further on. 

“How much longer are we going to travel?” She asked idly, drumming her blackened fingers along her cheek as the wagon continued to uncomfortably bounce over pebbles in the road. 

“A few more minutes. There's still an hour or two of daylight left,” Florice replied simply. 

“I’m so bored,” the mask whined as the cart approached the bend in the road. She straightened up and brushed out her fabrics. Then she lazily leaned over and happily bumped the edge of her cheek against Florice’s shoulder which effectively sent a rivulet of ooze dribbling down his robes. He glanced over at the mask and promptly shrugged her off with a huff before using one hand to playfully knock her shoulder. 

“You’re dirtying my robes, _again.”_

“Yeah and robes can be washed–” the mask’s indignant counter was cut short as the cart abruptly jolted to a halt. She jerked forwards, hands flying down to grasp the edge of the seat and stabilize herself atop the wagon bench before she could lose her balance. 

“Woah–” Florice grunted, straining as he tugged on the reins and forcefully pulled the horse to a stop. The animal let out a nervous whinny, tossing its head with white bulging eyes. The horse’s hooves moved in a spooked prance as the cart wheels inched backwards. 

“Give me a warning next time before you stop!” The mask retorted with a flash of annoyance as she adjusted her seat, smoothing out the skirts of her dress. Without warning, Florice smacked her arm with the back of his gloved hand. She bristled furiously at the contact and knocked his hand away.

“Ow! Excuse you–!”

“We’ve got company,” Florice hissed furiously, jerking his head to indicate the various shadows melting out of the woods. The mask followed his gesture to observe four figures emerge from the tree line on either side of the road. 

Each were clad in a mixture of leather and fur while their fists grasped an assortment of respective weapons. Two held crossbows, one, a knife and the other a short sword swinging from its sheath. The man with the sword was clad in a different jumbled assortment of armor than the rest, a breastplate and two mis-matched arm plates. The mask was swift to pick him out as the definite leader. 

She squinted, (metaphorically obviously) observing the group’s movement as the two crossbow-wielders took up stance on either side of their cart. The thin knife wielding-man with the satchel stood to the right of the leader as he approached them from the front, with one hand casually resting on the hilt of his sword. 

“Soldiers…? Crusaders, maybe…?” The mask questioned, casting Florice a knowing glance. His fingers loosened on the reins and he squared his shoulders. A flicker of uncertainty flickered across his expression. 

“I don’t think so. But they don’t look like common thieves either,” he muttered, nervously eyeing their sudden company.

“A surprise then!” The mask chuckled. “I’m always here for a good surprise.”

“We have to be careful,” Florice replied coldly. If the mask possessed eyeballs, they’d have been rolling. She tipped back on her elbows and waved a dismissive hand. 

“Yeah yeah. They probably just want money or whatever other thing drives you all crazy here–”

“‘Evening good sir and lady!”

Dislodging a few droplets of black ooze, the mask scrambled upright at the sound of the leader’s voice. Her fingertips grasped the edge of the dashboard as she leaned over the wagon top to take in the man’s appearance. 

She was interested in where this show would lead. Perhaps this situation would turn out to be amusing. She hoped that was the case. After all, she’d been stuck on this wagon for ages with no source of real entertainment. Everything had been so excruciatingly boring up until this point. 

Glancing at her companion, she awaited his response to the man’s simplistic greeting. However, Florice remained quiet. He rubbed the stubble at his chin and blinked, clearly unsure of where to begin. 

The mask’s patience was quick to run dry. He was taking too long. 

Gosh, the mask had to do everything herself to get any sort of proper amusement here, didn’t she? She promptly swung to her feet atop the wagon and turned her attention to the men, addressing the leader. He was a heavy built man with a rather square face. His greased hair was pulled back into a ponytail and a brown beard clung to his chin. 

“Hello! Lovely evening isn’t it?” She proclaimed, waving her hand toward the low light filtering through the trees. The men below her shifted uneasily as they viewed the full extent of her appearance. The black stains rubbed into her ragged dress and viscous liquid pooling over her neck and dribbling from her porcelain lips was certainly off-putting. The mask’s grin widened at their discomfort. The leader’s face dropped slightly and he struggled to maintain an upbeat facade. Her presence quite literally produced an unnerving atmosphere. 

“Certainly! I’d love to continue this chat but I’m afraid I have a pressing job to take care of,” he explained, hand lightly tapping the hilt of the sword at his belt. 

“What could possibly be more pressing than me, darling?” The mask flirted smugly, airily waving a hand. The leader let out a half-chuckle. 

“Lose the mask, then we can talk, little lady.”

The mask’s smug aura dropped like a stone as disappointment overtook her thoughts. This guy kinda sucked. Nothing but boring predictable responses. 

Well...how could she make him interesting? She vividly pondered how he’d look hanging from a tree after she'd persuaded his own men to stab him, letting him bleed out and watch as they each fell on their own weapons. Betrayal always made for a good drama. 

She picked at her blackened fingers with disinterest, about to utter a witty remark when there was a scraping of boots as Florice climbed to his feet beside her. He nudged her aside with his shoulder. 

“We’re just passing through, we have business in the next town over. Can we help you with anything, gentlemen?” Florice spoke steadily, hands folded near his belt. 

“Don’t start anything. They’re armed with crossbows, take this seriously,” he hissed quietly at the mask out of the corner of his mouth without taking his eyes off the group leader. 

Now, the mask would have loved nothing more than to start something but Florice was right. They were armed and dangerous. Although the mask was practically invincible, Florice most certainly wasn't. 

“Yeah, got it, doc,” she muttered dejectedly. 

The leader of the men pondered Florice’s query for a split second before nodding. 

“Yes actually, you _can_ help us by getting down from your seat and giving us anything of value you have. To put it bluntly, this is a robbery,” the leader proclaimed confidently as he cheerfully motioned with two fingers for his archers to level their weapons. Florice was quick to raise his hands. 

“Please, there’s no need for weapons. We’re unarmed and we aren’t here for any trouble. We don’t have anything of value, we’re simple travelers,” Florice spoke with a neutral, steady tone. He seemed unfazed by the whole ordeal. The leader stepped forward, the metal sole of his boot clinking against the ground. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the doctor atop the wagon. 

“Get down from your seats, both of you,” he ordered briskly, all traces of friendliness gone. Florice slowly moved towards the step attached to the side of the wagon, making certain to keep his open palms up by his shoulders. As he did, the crossbow tip of the nearest man followed him. Florice then turned backwards and placed his boot on the topmost step, glancing up at the mask still standing motionless atop the wagon. 

“Come on.”

She didn’t budge. 

“Why should I?” 

Florice bathed the mask in a yellow deadpan stare. The mask pouted. 

“Aw, what’s with that look, dear?”

“We don’t have time for your antics.”

“Yeah yeah, but it's a stupid idea to hand yourself over. At least put up a fight,” the mask muttered as Florice descended the vertical steps. Once his feet had reached the ground, she reluctantly followed suit and hopped down from the wagon. The ragged soles of her shoes hit the dirt and a splatter of black ooze followed. 

Now firmly planted on the ground, the mask paid no mind to her rumpled dress and instead placed her hands on her hips, moving to stand just behind the doctor, peaking around his arm to curiously observe the armed men now at eye-level.

“Both of you, go stand against that tree,” the leader barked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at one of the thick oak trees behind him. Florice moved towards the aforementioned tree at the man’s command, with the mask begrudgingly following in his footsteps. 

“Hey you–keep them in line,” the leader motioned for one of the crossbow wielding men to follow his two victims who had obeyed his command and halted under the tree. Both the mask and doctor had spun back around to observe the robbers milling around near their cart. Florice’s dark sleeve brushed against the mask’s as they stood against the tree trunk. She idly observed the man with the crossbow creep around into a better angled position, training the tip of the bolt to aim right at the mask’s chest. 

“Don’t try anything funny,” he sneered. The mask sucked in an audible breath and was fully prepared to spit out a provoking argument when Florice elbowed her, glancing over to cast her an exasperated look. 

_We don’t want trouble. Stop trying to make trouble._ The mask could practically hear his dry tone from within her own mind. 

“You two! Search the wagon for anything of value!” The leader’s eyes never left the two under the tree, even as he ordered the other crossbow wielding man and the short one with the knife to move. Both men immediately followed his command, whirling around and heading to the back of the covered wagon. 

The mask glanced at Florice who’s expression was impassively calm. There was nothing here to worry about–or lose for that matter. The two quite literally had nothing. The truth of the matter was that they _were_ only simple travelers hoping to reach the next town over.

With a twinge of amusement the mask shifted, observantly eyeing the nearest crossbow man. These robbers would find nothing–absolutely nothing. But what would happen after that? Hopefully something entertaining. 

“Boss! There’s nothing here, the wagon's empty!” The knife wielding man called from across the road as he stepped out from behind the wagon. 

“Really?” The leader turned away from his victims to address the two men trudging their way across the clearing as they returned from their brief search. 

“Nothing boss, just some straw.”

Receiving this information the leader whirled back around, squinting suspiciously at the mask and the doctor backed up against the tree. Florice offered him an apologetic half grimace and the mask would have beamed innocently if she had the capacity to change her expression. 

The lead robber’s eyes wracked up and down both of them, sizing them up before his gaze flickered down to rest on the object at Florice’s side. 

“Your bag?” He offered out an expecting palm. This is where the mask expected Florice to draw the line yet to her ever increasing surprise, he quietly unslung the strap from his shoulder with little complaint, maintaining his cool composure even as the leader snatched the bag from his grip. 

“I thought you liked your bag,” the mask hissed from the corner of her mouth, eyeing the doctor in her peripherals. A rare emotion lightened the doctor’s eyes. Amusement. 

“Patience. Just watch.”

The lead robber turned the bag over in his hands, yanking the fabric open and dumping it upside down with a firm shake. The mask expected many things–the doctor’s bag was filled to the brim with supplies for his trade, she’d witnessed him packing the items into the bag herself yet...as the bag was shaken and turned upside down, nothing fell from it’s depths. The mask was just as mystified as the lead robber at the emptiness. She glanced at Florice who cast her a look of mild amusement, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“The bag was affected by Alagadda,” he murmured in a low voice. The mask’s eyebrows figuratively raised to the sky. Despite being with Florice for around a year, she somehow never noticed the bag’s anomalous trait.

“Oh,” she muttered lightly as her gaze was drawn back to the leader who’d flipped the bag over in his hands once more, peering into its seemingly empty depths. Then, clearly disappointed with his findings, the lead robber tossed the bag away which hit the ground with a dull thud. He glared suspiciously at the mask and the doctor. 

“You have nothing.”

Florice dipped his head. 

“That is correct.”

The lead robber paused, studying the two for a moment, his gaze wracking over both of them before he strode forwards, hand on the hilt of his short sword. 

“What are your names? Where are you going?” He questioned, brows furrowed in a mixture of curiosity and frustration. Florice opened his mouth to speak. 

“My name’s–”

“Boss! Look at these!” 

The lead robber and his two captives turned in unison towards the exclamation from the thin, knife-wielding man. With long spindly fingers he’d reached into the satchel at his side and drawn out two rolled, clearly worn pieces of parchment from a collection of yellowing papers peeking from the top of his bag. 

As the lead robber accepted them from the other man, the mask had a fairly accurate idea of what those parchments entailed. Her guess was good as gold as the lead robber continued to unfurl the first parchment.

He momentarily examined the paper splayed before him before a chuckle fell from his mouth and he shook his head in mock disbelief. 

“This you?” 

He flipped the parchment over in his hands displaying the inked side to the mask and the doctor standing under the tree.

Yep, the mask’s suspicions were confirmed. The parchment was indeed a wanted poster. She squinted at the image and the lettering scrawled below it. She rubbed her chin, black ooze flowing over her fingers as she peered at the inked paper. The image drawn onto the parchment resembled Florice a little too much to be coincidence. 

“Well, that’s certainly a flattering rendition,” the mask started gleefully, a chuckle rising from her throat as she clapped her hands together and glanced at Florice. Florice blinked, eyeing his companion with a frown and mouthed, 

“Don’t encourage them.”

The mask ignored his stern gaze and instead squinted at the lettering below the image depicted on the parchment. 

“So, I’ll take that as a yes?” The lead robber questioned, waiting for confirmation. The mask paid him no mind and Florice remained silent. Her eyes flew over the number digits she abruptly straightened up with a greatly dramaticized gasp, excitably bumping her shoulder against Florice’s and jerking her head towards the poster as if he hadn't seen the contents already. 

“Woah!” She exclaimed in an incredulous tone, throwing an arm around Florice’s shoulders and using her free hand to pinch his cheek in a friendly manner. He winced, stiffening under the mask’s grip. The crossbow man beside them shifted warily. 

“So you’re telling me, _this_ handsome mug is worth _that_ much!?” The mask exclaimed incredulously, giving Florice’s cheek a firm pat. 

“All those zeros are kinda overselling it, he’s not that interesting.”

“You’re too kind,” Florice grumbled under his breath as she poked his cheek reassuringly once more. She then turned her gaze back to the poster and began reading out the words plastered along the bottom. 

“‘Dangerous: Wanted for devil worship, witchcraft and necromancy’? That’s quite a title but this guy here isn’t _that_ scary...” the mask paused, tapping her porcelain cheek in thought. With a knowing, satisfied smirk, the lead robber rolled up the parchment and reached for the second one even as the mask continued to ramble. 

“–He’s actually a little on the shy quiet side and it's true he likes to dabble in science but I wouldn’t say he’s–OH!” 

As the lead robber unfurled the second poster, the mask’s arms slid from Florice’s shoulders as they came to rest on her hips. She bristled, tipping forwards on her toes. 

“Hey! You can’t put a price tag on me, darling,” she exclaimed indignantly as she caught sight of the image and lettering inking the second poster. She straightened up and laced her fingers together under her chin, eyebrows furrowing as a trickle of black leaked from her left eye. 

“These porcelain features are priceless!” 

A chuckle fell from the lead robber’s smirking mouth as he rolled the second poster back up and handed the parchments off to his right hand man who stuffed them back in his satchel for safekeeping. The leader rubbed his hands together in glee. 

“Looks like we’ve got you both. You’ll fetch a high price from several of my usual clients, including the Spanish King. Eric–tie their hands, make the witch’s especially tight, I don’t want him trying any funny magic,” the lead robber jerked his head at the man with the crossbow trained on the mask. He lowered his weapon, placing the bow in one hand as he reached around his waist for the coils of rope situated on one of his belt loops. 

“I’m not a witch, I’m a doctor,” Florice muttered, insulted. He glared daggers at the man approaching him. 

“Yes, yes, well, whatever you are, you’re certainly worth a lot of money!” The lead man chuckled heartily. 

Ah, the mask had been mistaken. These weren’t robbers (at least not now, in the scenario regarding the mask and the doctor), they were bounty hunters. And according to the posters within their possession, the mask and the doctor were extremely valuable bounty prey. 

The man named Eric–the one with the crossbow now swinging at his belt approached Florice with a coil of rope clenched in his grip. 

“Turn around. Hands behind your back,” he ordered. In complete silence but with a furious glare, Florice did as asked, wincing as the rope pulled taut around his wrists. 

“So got any grand plan to get out of this one, doc?” The mask hissed quietly, a trickle of black dribbling from her lips. He shook his head before spinning back around to face the lead bounty hunter as Eric finished the job on his wrists and stepped away. The mask sighed. She had to do everything herself these days didn’t she? 

She balefully eyed Eric approach her with a second rope coil. While she begrudgingly turned around to face the bland tree bark and felt the binding rope snake around her wrists, she mulled over their situation at hand. 

She had to be unceremoniously careful regarding their situation since Florice wasn’t as invincible as she was. It was four against two–technically three against two if the mask could seize one of the men as a host. Yes...that could work. She’d have the wonderful upper hand with the element of surprise if she was able to wear one of them. 

With the mask possessing one of them, she would certainly cause a good ordeal of havoc and even find a smidge of entertainment watching their fear stricken faces shift to panic as they would run about like beheaded chickens. 

The crunch of a twig sounded behind her as Eric stepped back after finishing his job of securely tying her wrists together. She whirled back around, gaze wracking over the four men situated in the clearing. Her eyes settled on the lead bounty hunter as he addressed both his men and his victims. 

“The two of you are coming with us. You boys take the wagon,” he waved a hand at the man with the knife and the other man still holding his crossbow. They both moved on his command and whirled around, trudging back towards the wagon across the road. 

“Eh, I don’t think either of us really wanna come with you,” the mask breezily declared with a shrug, nudging Florice’s shoulder. The bounty hunter’s eyes narrowed, regarding her cheerful grinning porcelain with a dark expression. 

“And you, take off her mask,” he ordered Eric, jerking his head towards her in indication. 

“Ah, wonderful! Be dear, Eric and do just what he said,” the mask poked cheerfully, excited at the prospect. She was filled with glee as Eric showed reluctance approaching the mask pouring black ooze. He paused just before her, a sneer hiding his uncertainty as he the fear-inducing psychological effects of the mask’s unnerving grin washed over him. With leather gloved hands, he reached towards the mask’s cheeks, fingers hooking under the porcelain edges. There was a small tug...then–

The mask was free.

As Eric held the mask in his palms his eyes glazed over, falling prey to the mask’s trance almost instantly. 

The lead man made a noise of horror from behind his henchman and the mask was overcome with a fit of mirth.

He must have noticed the shell of the mask’s old body, swaying on her feet. The poor woman’s pretty face neatly peeled off, bloodied mucus and bits of flesh barely clinging to the scraped surface of her skull. 

The mask’s glee faltered when Florice shuddered, averting his gaze from the messy sight. 

Ah, no matter. 

“Holy mother of–” the leader breathed, horrified. “What is wrong with your face?” 

At the mask’s will, Eric flipped the mask over, swiftly pressing the porcelain features over his own. In a matter of seconds, his mind was shattered, melting into a pool of nothing as the mask’s consciousness settled into place, seizing control over his body. 

“Oh don’t worry darling, that wasn’t my face,” the mask began lightly, flexing his fingers and experimentally turning over his hands. His grin widened, rivers of black bubbling over his stark white lips as the body of his former host swayed, sagging to the ground with a hollow thump.

“I’m the mask, not the body,” the mask whirled to face the leader, gesturing to himself in a manner reminiscent of a bow. The mask relished in the particular way the leader’s mouth hung open with astonishment and how the light died from his eyes now stretched wide in utter terror. Showtime had begun. 

With the flick of his wrist, the mask grinned as a tendril erupted from the dirt beneath the leader’s feet, snaking around his legs. He let out a strangled yell, stumbling backwards in shock and narrowly avoiding the limb. 

“Holy mother of–Help! Backup–I need help!” He shouted in alarm, hand wrapping around the hilt of his short sword. At his strangled cry, the other two men came racing around the corner, abandoning their business with the wagon across the trail and practically materialized at their leader’s side. 

The knife wielding man skidded to a halt at the sight of the mask adorned on Eric’s former body and he gawked wide-eyed at his leader who was thrashing and hacking with his short sword at a blood-red tendril weaving around him. 

“The mask–kill it!” The bounty hunter leader exclaimed between the slashes of his blade. The crossbow man wasted no time nocking his weapon and aiming the tip of his bolt at the mask, who danced sideways just as the crossbolt left it’s string. A hot flash of pain pierced the mask’s wrist and he glanced down with mild amusement at the bolt lodged in his host’s flesh. 

A warbling laugh fell from the mask’s lips as he snapped the shaft in two, tossing the mere twig aside. His attention snapped up to follow the knife wielding man moving in a blur across the clearing. The mask barely had time to observe the knife’s path as it flew from his hand across the way. Florice flinched as the blade lodged itself in the sturdy bark near his waist. 

“Heyo! I’m the one you’re trying to kill here, give _me_ your attention!” The mask snapped furiously, raising his hand as a second bloody tendril erupted from the ground, lashing out at the crossbow wielding man who’d just finished nocking a second arrow. The tendril sent the man tumbling sideways and he slammed against the nearest pine tree, body crumpling to the ground, stunned. The tendril slipped back into the ground and promptly disappeared. 

A strangled cry erupted from the knife-wielding man’s mouth as he witnessed the horrors unfolding before him. He whirled around to face the mask and flipped a second knife into his palm, a crazed look flickering wildly in his eyes. 

To observe a good man really _snap_ was truly a glorious honor. There was something so poetic about the transition to madness when a man knew his life was at it’s end. And so the mask snickered with glee as the man surged forwards, rushing the mask with the knife raised in one hand. The mask shifted, just as the knife came swinging downwards, the blade sinking into the layers of cloth and piercing the flesh between the mask’s shoulder and chest. 

The man paused, stumbling back in disbelief. His eyes drew wide and his mouth fell agape as he watched the mask’s fingers wrap around the blade’s hilt, effectively pulling the knife free and dropping the bloodied weapon to the road with a shiny clatter. 

The mask idly brushed off the wound as black ooze bubbled forth, dripping down his new thick leather-and-fur attire. His attention snapped up as the man materialized a _third_ knife (where was this guy getting his knives anyways?) and lunged forwards, boots kicking up dust once more. 

In a flash the mask pivoted to the side sneaking his hand under the man’s raised arm. In an instant his fingers found the man’s throat, tightening around his windpipe with a crushing grip. The man gasped, knife falling from his grip as his hands scrabbled uselessly at the mask’s wrist. 

“Please,” the man gargled out, slowly turning a considerable shade of blue. The mask’s grin widened. 

“Since you asked so nicely–” with all his strength, the mask slammed him to the dirt, releasing his crushing grip as the man’s head audibly cracked against the ground, eyes rolling up inside his skull. 

Oh that one was dead for sure. 

For good measure, the mask slammed his heavily booted foot into the man’s ribcage with an audible crunch. Satisfied, he whirled around, gaze settling on the lead bounty hunter who was currently engaged in fending off the sole tendril playfully batting at him. The mask enjoyed the scene as the leader swung his sword, effectively slicing through the limb. With a crazed triumphant look the man staggered upright, chest heaving as he gazed at the tendril lying limply in half strewn across the road. 

As the mask shifted, the leader’s gaze snapped up, traces of his triumph melting away as the mask’s gaze turned upon him. He upheld a faltering grin. 

“I–I defeated that thing–now you–you’re not going to get away from me now,” he proclaimed between breaths, wiping the sweat from his brow and leveling the tip of his sword in the mask’s direction. 

“Oh I wouldn’t dream of it! Glad we’re on the same page then, darling,” the mask proclaimed, spreading his hands as black ooze spewed beneath his porcelain features, dribbling down this neck. 

“You’re going to–die,” the man managed out, raising his short sword now clutched in both his fists. The mask began to shake, mirth rolling from his shoulders as he laughed, briefly doubling over to clutch at his heaving stomach. For a moment the man faltered. The mask straightened up, wiping black tears from his pale cheeks. 

“That was the _worst_ threat I’ve ever heard!” He exclaimed. “I can’t–I can’t take you seriously when you–”

The man’s grip tightened on his short sword as fury contorted his expression. He lunged forwards, managing a few steps towards the mask before a flurry of tendrils erupted from beneath his feet, knocking his sword from his grip, the blade soaring through the air and landing several feet away, lodging in the dirt with its hilt pointed at the sky. The man was roughly swept off his feet, landing in the dust. He hastily scrambled backwards, uselessly kicking at the tendrils with a strangled yell. 

The mask’s composure shifted instantly, all traces of careless amusement wiped blank as he snapped his fingers, tentacles shaking the pebbles of the road as they retreated back beneath the dirt. 

There was a split second where the man was free from assault before the mask was upon him, pinning him down with one set of fingers wrapped digging into his throat. The mask’s grin widened as terror stretched across the leader’s face while he thrashed uselessly under the mask’s influence. Black acidic ooze dripped from the mask’s expression, splashing onto the man’s face with a sizzling sound. 

A strangled scream erupted from his mouth as the mask’s other hand clawed at his face. The mask’s fingers dug under his bloodied skin and a set of black fingernails raked deeply through the man’s flesh, tearing through his eye as the mask’s hand continued a ragged path down the right side of the man’s face. 

The man howled in pain, music to the mask’s ears as he flailed about in agony, clutching the bloody pulp left of the right side of his face. With a snicker, the mask released his grip on the man’s windpipe, clambering to his feet for a better view of his agonized thrashing. He watched as the man rolled across the ground like a wounded animal, scrabbling at his grotesquely marred face. 

The mask would’ve loved nothing more but to stay and watch the rest of the show but the twang of a bowstring and a pained cry drew his attention. He spun on a heel to observe the crossbow man now conscious amongst the pine needles, lying on his stomach propped up by his elbows with his weapon in hand, the tip trained on... _Florice._

Shit! The mask had been so preoccupied with the others he’d forgotten about his companion back across the road. Florice had managed to get his bound hands around to his front and had been using the blade sticking out of the tree near his waist to saw off his bonds when the man with the crossbow opened fire, a bolt piercing through the doctor’s robes, sinking into the flesh of his side. 

Florice cried out in pain, the rope between his wrists slipping off the knife as he swayed on his feet, sagging backwards against the tree and limply slumping to the ground, clutching at the bolt in his side. 

For a moment, blind fury overtook the mask’s thoughts. 

“Why don’t you stupid idiots ever do anything right!” He roared, stalking towards the crossbow man lying limply on the ground. At the mask’s outburst, the crossbow man’s head turned, observing the stomping boots approaching his face at ground level. A wide sneer of black rivulets streamed from the mask’s lips. 

“I’m the threat here, you fucking imbeciles!” He snarled, a tendril erupting the ground, piercing straight through the man’s chest. The man shuddered, gasping for air as a violent cough wracked his body and he wheezed, spewing up bloody chunks before his head fell limp against the forest floor, thick crimson liquid dripping from his lips. 

With that, the mask’s temperament cooled as quick as it had sprung. He dusted off his hands with a dash of satisfaction. The pained whimpers of the marred leader still groaning on the ground behind him faded into background noise. The mask turned towards Florice’s limp form crumpled against the tree trunk. His expression was concerningly paler than usual. He was stark white, almost the same color as the mask’s porcelain features. 

In an instant, the mask materialized at his side, kneeling down amongst the leaves of the forest floor as apprehension filled his thoughts. His hands uneasily hovering over his wounded companion, not entirely sure what course of action should be taken. 

“How bad is it?” he started uncertainly. Florice’s eyes squeezed shut and he winced, shifting himself upright. His forehead was uncharacteristically clammy, strings of black hair sticking to his skin. 

“I’m–I’m alright,” he hissed between gritted teeth, inhaling a shuddering breath. He cracked open an eye, shakily raising his bound hands to point behind the mask. 

“The bounty hunter–he’s getting away,” he weakly managed out. The mask glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the wounded hunter clutching his face and staggering across the clearing. He left a spattering trail of crimson across the road in his wake. His sword hung loosely in the grip of one hand. He moved towards the wagon, cutting the horse free from it’s bonds with a sloppy swing. The animal somehow hadn’t spooked and taken off in the midst of all that bloody ordeal. 

The gravely injured man managed to shakily mount the animal, barely able to hold on with both hands as bloodied pulp dripped from his eye socket. 

The mask could care less, even as the man managed to chide the horse into a walk before wheeling his mount around to face the open road. He then kicked the animal who promptly responded to his demands and took off down the path in a gallop. The clatter of hoofsteps faded from hearing as the horse and rider disappeared out of sight around the bend. The mask turned his attention back to Florice with a shrug. 

“Don’t worry about it, he’s long gone and won’t be coming after us again any time soon.”

Florce’s hands fell to his side, still stuck together with rope. He went to gingerly touch the bolt sticking out from his side only to wince in pain and withdraw his bound hands with a hiss. The mask leaned forward. 

“Here–doc, give me your wrists.”

Florice complied with the mask’s request, trembling as he held out his bound, shaky hands. The mask’s fingers enveloped the rope, corrosive substance oozing from beneath his fingernails and eating through the organic fibers. 

Withdrawing his touch, the mask watched with satisfaction as the ropes fell away from the doctor’s wrists and lay sizzling on the leafy ground. Florice’s free hands dropped to his side. The mask observed the doctor succumb to his fit of exhausting agony. His eyelids drooped weakly and his shoulders slumped over. The mask frowned, rubbing his palms together as he leaned over his wounded companion with concern. 

“Alright, now how do I fix you up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda wonder what they did to piss off the spanish king tho in less than a year of traveling together.  
> Also i hate writing fight scenes so fucking much. But it must be done. Unfortunately.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i just keep writing longer and longer chapters, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 035: hmm yes i am an extremely powerful eldritch-like entity with the ability to tear apart peoples minds. Very manipulative and sadistic. I like making them kill themselves because its funny. They're all puppets and i can make them do whatever show i want. Also i am going to kill the ambassador and the other lords and make them suffer and i want to free the hanged king which creates the possibility the king could really grasp the full extent of his powers and end up assisting the scarlet king in destroying the universe. 
> 
> Also 035: help,.whydosi find doctor,, pretty, i canot think.,hlep me,,mind empty,

“C’mon doc, talk to me. How do I fix this?”

Florice’s eyes fluttered open at the mask’s words. He struggled to prop himself further upright, hissing as a crimson stain blossomed from the bolt’s puncture site, staining his dark robes red. Concerned, the mask placed a steady hand on Florice’s shoulder, gently pushing him back down. 

“I don’t know much about mortal bodies but I do know moving will make it worse,” he proclaimed firmly, meeting the doctor’s gaze. Florice ceased struggling under his touch and relaxed, muscles falling limp. His eyes fluttered shut as he bumped the back of his head against the rough bark, hood falling around his shoulders. He raised a hand halfway off the ground in a dismissive gesture.

“This is just a minor graze, I’ll be–ah–fine,” Florice winced. Suddenly, he raised his head, gaze flicking from the arrow in his side to the mask kneeling over him. 

“Pull out the arrow.”

“What?”

“I need you to help me–pull out the arrow,” Florice managed steadily, struggling to keep himself upright. The mask mulled over his words for a moment. 

“That doesn’t sound right...” he began slowly, a dribble of black leaking from the corner of his eye. “Won’t that–”

“Are you the doctor here? No,” Florice snapped irritably, clenching his jaw. He closed his eyes, dark brows furrowed in pain. 

“Grab my bag first, I’m going to need bandages. Then pull out the arrow,” he instructed in a dark tone before leaning back and smacking the back of his head against the rough bark. The mask muttered an incoherent string of complaints as he straightened up, brushing off his clothes. He whirled around to spy Florice’s bag resting innocently in the road a few feet away from the body of the thin knife-wielding man. He stalked across the road, leaving boot prints on the man’s corpse for good measure before he snatched up the bag and whirled around, stomping back over to Florice. 

He dropped to his knees once more at Florice’s level, offhandedly placing the black bag beside him. He frowned at the bolt impaled through Florice’s side, pondering whether there was a correct method of yanking out the arrow. His hands, covered in short leather gloves, hovered over the shaft as he hesitated. 

“Just pull it out,” Florice’s eyes snapped open and he raised his head, eyeing the mask with his piercing yellow gaze. The mask glanced up at his pale, exasperated expression. 

“Any particular way you want it done?”

“No, just pull it out before I bleed to death,” Florice hissed shortly. He sealed his eyes shut against the agony. Blood pooled from the fabric of his side, staining the pine needles beneath him red. 

The mask rubbed his hands together. 

“Alrighty then! Consider it done, dear,” He proclaimed cheerfully, giving Florice’s clammy cheek a reassuring pat. 

Without warning he reached over and grasped the crossbolt as close to the base as possible. With one clean swipe of his left hand, he yanked the cursed thing free, the bolt sliding from the doctor’s flesh with ease. Florice uttered an agonized noise and grit his teeth as blood splashed from his side onto the leafy ground cover. His hand shot out and his fingers wrapped around the mask’s forearm, tightening in a vice-like grip as he attempted to steady himself while he struggled to breath.

The mask tossed the bolt away without care, barely noticing the bloodstains now coating his left gloved hand. His attention hastily returned to the wounded doctor before him whose fingers were digging painfully into his wrist and leaving angry bruise marks on his host’s flesh. 

“There’s bandages in the bag–I need them,” Florice groaned before sucking in a sharp breath and releasing his grip on the mask’s arm. His hands flew down to press his crimson-stained fingers over the new hole in his side in a makeshift attempt to stem the sudden blood welling through his gloved fingertips. 

“Gotcha.”

The mask turned to the plain bag sitting in the dirt beside them and unwound the drawstring. He stuck his hands into its depths and rifled through the contents of it’s endless interior. Once his palms had closed around what felt like a loop of bandages, he turned back to Florice and triumphantly held up his hands which were covered in a mess of white dressings. He presented the coils to the doctor who shakily lifted them from the mask’s palms and hastily pressed the tangled wad of bandages to his open wound with a stinging wince and an inhaled hiss of pain. 

Blood blossomed across the stark white bandages, turning them a crimson hue. The doctor’s fingertips were instantly coated in a slick layer of his own blood which had bled through the dressings within seconds. He exhaled deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he limply slumped back against the tree in a fit of exhaustion. 

The mask was quiet for a moment as Florice rested. Seconds ticked by as the mask silently observed the doctor’s unsteady rhythm of shallow breathing slowly return to a more stable pattern.

Then the mask found the will to speak, shifting into a more comfortable position on the hard ground. He tucked his knees to his chest, sight roaming up from the doctor’s chest to his pale expression. The mask’s porcelain features fell to the side. 

“So...what now?”

“Wait for the bleeding to stop,” Florice mumbled simply, hands shifting as he applied more pressure to his bloodied side. The mask heaved a dramatic sigh, tipping forwards.

“I don’t like waiting,” he whined glumly, precariously balancing his porcelain cheek on the tips of his knuckles. 

“I know you don’t,” Florice muttered softly, cracking open an eye as a shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. The mask caught his gaze before promptly glancing away from the doctor’s lighthearted expression with a glum sigh, black ooze dribbling over his gloved hands. Florice slipped back into restful silence, eyes fluttering shut. After a moment, he broke the quiet air between them.

“If you need something to do, making camp would be helpful. Night is falling fast–” Florice broke off with a pained gasp as his pressured grip haphazardly slipped off the bloodied bandages blotting his wound. He flinched, gingerly fixing his grasp on the dressings. 

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be leaving you here alone like this,” the mask refuted, notably eyeing a thin stream of bloody droplets collecting into a steadfast pool beneath the doctor. 

“I’m fine–” Florice mumbled indignantly. 

“You had an arrow sticking out of you a minute ago!” 

“I’m not some child. I can be left alone for a few minutes,” Florice’s brows furrowed in a scowl. He tilted his head to bath the mask in a harsh yellow glare. The mask was stubborn. 

“You’re still bleeding, I’m not leaving you here alone–”

“I’m not helpless. Please, just start making camp. I’ll be fine,” Florice’s tone softened as he steadily met the mask’s gaze. The mask huffed irritably, black ooze streaming across his knuckles. He glared heatedly at Florice. Florice stared back coolly. A moment passed before–

“Ugh!” The mask threw up his hands in exasperated defeat. “Fine! I’ll go make camp but I’m not responsible if you die, get that?”

The mask shook a blackened finger at the doctor who’s expression eased as he nodded in confirmation. Satisfied, the mask’s demeanor shifted almost instantly as he gathered his legs from underneath him and clambered to his feet. He brushed off his host’s odd hodgepodge of clothes, scattering a few loose pine needles when placed his hands on his hips. Cheerfully, he gazed down at Florice’s limp form crumpled against the tree with a wide, blackened grin. 

“Alright. Well I’m gonna go push the wagon into the woods off the path,” the mask proclaimed. Black ooze spattered across the pine-needles, mixing with the doctor’s pool of blood. A faint sizzling noise could be heard on contact. 

“Just yell if you’re dying and I’ll come save you, m’dear,” the mask instructed brightly, waggling a finger down at the doctor. Florice lazily waved him off as a form of acknowledgement before closing his eyes and shifting uncomfortably against the tree trunk. The mask whirled around towards the wagon, his boots stomping across the dirt road.

“Make a fire too!” Florice abruptly called from behind him. 

“Yeah yeah–don’t tell me what to do, you peasant!” The mask echoed back a playful retort over his shoulder before he reached the wagon and promptly set to work. 

–––––––––––

The mask made quick work of his tasks. He didn’t quite have the capacity to care about the mutilated bodies strewn across the ground. He left those just as they were. 

However, he unblocked the road by rolling the wagon several feet off the path into the woods, stopping when he stumbled upon a small clearing several dozen yards in. Stepping back to admire his handiwork, he found the wagon invisible from the road, concealed behind the curtain of green leaves. He then began to wander the woods, dry leaves loudly crunching underfoot as he searched for suitable sticks to use as fuel for a fire. He was careful not to stray too far from the clearing or road as he unconsciously kept glancing back towards the general direction where the doctor lay immobilized. 

With a bundle of considerably sized sticks and branches gathered in his arms, the mask made his way back towards the wagon in the clearing, half tripping over various roots sticking out from the forest floor. He ducked under a wayward branch and stepped into the clearing where the wagon lay. For a moment, he paced about the cleared ground before finding a suitable spot for the fire. He paused, lazily opening his arms and dumping the sticks across the ground.

“This sucks,” he muttered, brushing debris from his sleeves with a curse and picking at tiny slices of bark sticking to the fabric. 

“I shouldn’t be out here wandering around these stupid woods,” the mask grumbled, spying a lonesome twig in the dirt and winding up a good kick, sending the stick flying across the clearing. It landed somewhere out of sight. 

The mask sighed, clasping his hands together and stretching out his arms with wince and a pop as his bones creaked beneath his skin. Oh that was just fantastic. The corrosion was already hungrily gnawing at his skeleton. 

“Great.  _ Another _ sucky host. Wish I could have kept that woman on longer, she was super resilient,” the mask complained to no one in particular, swinging his arms at his sides and flexing his blackened fingers. He exhaled an exaggerated groan before straightening up and rubbing his hands together. There were still a few tasks at hand to complete. 

He spun around, the soles of his shoes crackling the dry leaves as he left the clearing, headed up towards the road. The western sky was painted a faint orange, the sun barely brushing the horizon line. 

Huh, the doctor had been correct. Night was falling fast. 

The mask popped out of the tree line and hopped up onto the road. Glancing to his left, he spied Florice’s darkly clothed form still crumpled on the ground, his doctor’s bag lying beside him. Nearing the doctor, the mask was able to discern that he was still resting with his eyes closed while his chest fluttered in a steady rise and fall. That was good, he seemed to be recovering. The mask hastily materialized before him, his shadow falling over the doctor. 

The mask was simply here to pick up Florice’s bag and bring it to the clearing. Yet something halted him in his tracks as he reached the doctor’s side. He paused, promptly struck with a foreign urge to remain standing over the doctor as he gazed down at Florice’s limp form. 

No...not limp...that wasn’t an accurate word. He was more... _ peaceful _ ...yes, definitely peaceful. The mask wasn't entirely sure what had befallen him but he felt compelled to simply gaze at the doctor’s pale expression and the wispy locks that fluttered about his face with every exhale. Or maybe it was the peculiar way the orange light filtering through the trees highlighted his features in a soft glow. 

“Are you going to keep standing there?” The spell was broken as Florice cracked open an eyelid, glaring up at the mask with a subtly bemused expression. 

“Nope! Here for the bag!” The mask barely managed out, thoughts moving sluggishly as he snapped out of his trance. His words oddly sounded out of tune to his ears. 

“Grabbing the bag to put it–I’m putting the–I’m just grabbing the bag to take to the wagon,” the mask stumbled out, hastily stooping as he snatched the bag off the ground, scattering a few loose pine needles. He straightened up, the handles grasped tightly in his palms. His black gaze glared downwards, burning into the plain black fabric of the bag in his grip. He refused to lay eyes anywhere near the doctor. Frustration stabbed at his mind as he attempted to form another coherent sentence but fell short and simply resorted to silence.

What was wrong with him? 

“Are you alright?” 

“I am fantastic!” The mask quipped cheerfully, expression jerking upright as he attempted to mask the sudden very ill sensation tugging at his chest. 

What  _ was going on?  _

The sensation wasn’t exactly...painful per se so the mask made no correlation to his corrosiveness. The feeling leaned more towards an oddly strong tug than agony. 

_ Oh. Perhaps I’m having a heart attack. Or rather, my host is having a heart attack...for...some...reason. Well, it’s happened befores so thats probably it. Wow, these hosts in this dimension really do suck, don’t they? _

Satisfied with his own conclusion, the mask snapped from his thoughts and slung the bag over his shoulder, attention turning downward as he addressed the doctor. 

“I’ll be back to fetch you after I drop this off,” he gave the doctor an offhand two fingered salute before whirling around and stalking back into the treeline, disappearing between the trunks. 

For some odd reason, his host’s–no  _ his  _ heart continued thudding much heavier than usual, a deafening heartbeat rushing in his ears. He ducked under a branch, black ooze dribbling down his cheek. Arriving at the clearing, he swiftly unslung the bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the forest floor. 

Promptly, he whirled around and stepped back into the forest to return to Florice. 

His heart continued to do backflips in his ribcage, even worsening as he approached the road. An odd burning sensation blossomed in his chest, heat rising up his neck. He stumbled, tripping over a root and scuffing up a cloud of leaves. Wobbling on his feet, he dizzily shook his head, black droplets splattering against the dry, crunchy forest floor. 

_ Maybe this isn’t a heart attack.  _

Emotions were a fickle thing. The mask subconsciously rubbed the back of his neck, hand coming away in a thick coating of black. He shook off his fingers in disgust, wiping the residue on the fabric of his pants. At this point, he was fairly certain he was experiencing some sort of foreign emotion. Emotions were tricky. The mask wasn’t entirely familiar with many beyond the scale of mirth and anguish. 

So...perhaps this rising heat indicated anger of some sort? Yet the mask didn’t feel angry, not in the slightest. In fact, the very opposite. Well...if it wasn’t anger than what was…?

_ Oh.  _

After a moment of heated internal debate, The mask’s thoughts were suddenly crystal clear. 

_ I’m probably just worried about Florice.  _

Love had been a debatable candidate for this sickening sensation but the mask waved that possibility away. There was simply zero possibility the mask held the capacity for that sort of feeling. Hell, he barely possessed a smidge of empathy, how would he be capable of love? The mask forced that idea down and pulled out a more suitable explanation accustomed to his liking. 

Yes, he was worried about Florice. End of conversation _.  _ He just wished his heart would stop fluttering like a lovesick butterfly.  __

He was wrenched out of his thoughts as he approached the road for the final time. Pushing aside a spiky branch covered in pine needles, he stepped out from behind a thick tree trunk and hopped up onto the path. He glanced to his immediate right to behold Florice slumped against the nearest tree trunk.

“Well hello, fancy seeing you here,” the mask grinned, hands on his hips as he stared down at the doctor. Florice’s eyes shot open at the mask’s words. He glanced up. 

“‘S it time to go?” he rasped before breaking off in a cough to clear his throat. 

“Yep. C’mere, I’ll help you–” the mask squatted down to Florice’s left. The doctor struggled to simultaneously sit upright and keep a hand clasped over his right side, securing his bandages in place. He leaned forwards as the mask’s arm wrapped across his back under his armpit. The doctor draped his free arm over the mask’s shoulders and the two rose in an unsteady, wobbling mess. The mask managed to keep his balance as Florice dizzily staggered to find his footing, dragging the mask along with him. At last the two found a manageable embrace with Florice practically draped over the mask’s side. 

“A-Alright, let’s go,” Florice stammered out, pale, clammy expression taut with pain. His fingers tightened on the bloody bandages at his side. The mask carefully stepped off, cautiously guiding him forwards. Luckily for the mask, Florice was practically built like a twig so the extra weight draped across his shoulders was merely an inconvenience, rather than a struggle. The two carefully stepped down into the tree line, startling up a mess of dry leaves with every step. 

“Yep, that’s it, come on,” the mask muttered absent-mindedly as Florice’s unsteady footsteps faltered with every other stride. They continued to stumble their way towards the clearing. 

“You’re doing gr–woah!” 

The mask’s free arm flew out across the doctor’s chest as he stumbled over a root, falling forwards. The mask hastily rightened his companion, peering concernedly at his gaunt expression. He seemed to be on the brink of unconsciousness, his eyelids drooping heavily as beads of sweat poured down his face. 

“You’re not looking so good doc, can you keep moving?”

Florice vaguely nodded his head. 

“Yes'm just a bit dizzy,” he mumbled, slurring. The mask lightly patted his chest before retracting his arm. 

“Alright, well we’re almost to the site. Just a couple dozen yards.”

The two managed to stumble their disorganized way through the forest all the way to the clearing. Breaking out of the heavy brush, the mask’s gaze swept over the clearing, searching for a place to let the doctor rest. To his left sat the covered wagon. Opposite the wagon was the pile of sticks for the fire and Florice’s bag. 

Florice was quite limp now and the mask managed to half drag him across the clearing to a stump beside his makeshift fire pile. There, Florice half fell from the mask’s side and settled onto the hard ground, leaning back against the wide stump with a hiss of pain, clutching at the blood-red bandages pressed against his wound. 

The mask waited in the dirt at his side to ensure he was all safely settled. Florice squirmed uncomfortably, squeezing his eyes shut before he muttered a confirmation he was fine and weakly batted the mask’s worried hands away. 

Satisfied, the mask rose to his feet, brushing off his clothes. A chilly breeze swept through the woods, rattling the leaves. He glanced down at the doctor, who had weakly tugged his hood over his ears at the cold breeze. 

Ah right. The fire. 

The mask turned towards the pile of branches he’d gathered and brushed a few stray sticks back into the pile with his foot. He glanced back at the doctor who was relaxed against the stump, eyes sealed shut.

“Uh...How exactly am I supposed to get the fire going?”

Without bothering to open his eyes, Florice vaguely waved in the general direction of his bag with his free hand. 

“Should be some...flint and steel in there somewhere...if my memory serves me correct,” he managed out. 

“Great.”

The mask turned, snatching the bag from the forest floor. He stuck a hand into his depths, promptly drawing out the flint and steel exactly as Florice had described. 

“Huh, thanks, doc.”

Striking the material together, a spark ignited the pile of sticks and soon the two partners had a small makeshift campfire flickering before them, slowly burning through the pile of branches. 

Satisfied with his work, the mask returned the materials back to the depths of Florice’s bag sitting beside him.

He then moved back and settled down beside the doctor, the leaves crunching under his boots as he sat and leaned forwards to rest his chin across the tops of his knuckles. 

The fire steadily grew, crackling lightly as a flurry of sparks and smoke ascended towards the open orange-reddish sky, loosely concealed by a sparse tangle of branches and leaves. The sun had dipped under the horizon, a lasting hue of red and yellow sprawling across what little sky was visible between the forest cover. 

A comfortable stretched between the two, spanning no more than a few moments before the mask spoke. 

“I’ll admit, this world does have its pretty moments,” he observed quietly, watching a wispy pink cloud drift across the sky. From beside him, Florice shifted and cracked open an eye. He bumped his robed shoulder against the mask’s with a mild expression.

“So you’re starting to like this ‘filthy backwater dimension’, hm…?” 

The mask snorted. 

“Well it's nothing compared to the grandeur of home obviously...but it's...certainly something,” he observed, a trickle of black ooze dripping from his knuckles and splattering against the forest floor. 

“Well...at least it's something,” Florice murmured quietly, sagging back against the tree stump once more. The mask idly drummed his fingers along his porcelain cheek before he cast the doctor a fleeting glance. 

“How’s the wound?” 

Florice gingerly lifted his gloved hand from the crimson bandages. He frowned, eyebrows knit together as he studied the bloodied mess of his side. 

“I think…” he paused, gingerly attempting to peel the bandages back. 

“Yes, I’m alright. The bleeding stopped so it should be safe to stitch up the wound.” 

“Stitch? Like sewing?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean? How does that even–” 

“Medical stitches. I don’t want to be walking around with an open side,” Florice explained drily. The mask scratched his chin with the tip of his finger with an amused grin. 

“Huh. Well that sounds pretty painful.” 

Florice struggled upright, hands scrabbling at the dirt as he propped himself straighter against the trunk. He gingerly picked at the crusty maroon pile of bandages bunched over his side. With a wince, he managed to peel away the used dressings without upsetting his clotted wound and tossed them aside. He then reached over and grasped his bag, plunging a hand into its depths and bringing out a small vial 

The mask sat forwards with interest. 

“What’s that?”

“Painkiller,” Florice muttered, unscrewing the cap and downing a few of the tiny rolled herbs inside. He wiped a hand across his lips and returned the vial to the bag. 

“That bag of yours really has everything, doesn’t it?”

Florice flashed the mask a muted grin. 

“Yes, it’s rather convenient actually,” he agreed before his attention was drawn away from the mask. His hands moved down to work at the cord drawn about his waist which helped secure his robes in place. He made quick work of the knot and the rope dropped to the ground. 

“Uh, what are you doing there, doc?”

“Do you expect me to stitch my skin together through my robes?” Florice snorted drily, reaching up and dislodging his hood, tossing the garment aside. The mask quietly observed as Florice shrugged off the sleeve from his left shoulder exposing the surface of his sickly white skin. With his left arm freed, he carefully managed to wrestle off his right sleeve without upsetting his wound. 

For some reason, the mask’s tiresome ability to speak had stuttered to a halt. He watched as Florice gingerly attempted to pry off his robes from the area of his wound. The cloth had been glued to his skin with bloody adhesive. Every so often, a muscle in Florice’s face twitched in pain as he slowly pried up the garment, cautious as to not aggravate or tear open the wound. 

“You uh...need any help?” The mask offered lightly. Florice shook his head, intently focused on his task. 

“No, I’ve almost got it–ow!” With one final swipe, he cleanly peeled off the remaining tattered section of his robe from his skin. Quickly, he bundled up his dark robes and placed them on the ground beside him before he turned and reached for his doctor’s bag. 

He shivered as a chilly breeze washed over his bare chest, a startlingly pasty pigment which hadn’t seen the sun for any prolonged periods of time in several years. He was left clad in his tattered slacks, boots and gloves which remained covering his fingers without question–the doctor seldom ever removed them. That was a habit the mask had picked up on in the latest months. 

Florice rummaged through his bag before promptly drawing out a thin needle and a messy coil of medicinal thread. The mask’s attention snapped from the doctor’s pasty figure to the objects in his grasp. The mask had assumed the ‘sewing’ and ‘stitches’ had been a more metaphorical term of speech rather than quite literally a needle and thread. He inched closer to the doctor, concern flickering across his thoughts.

“Hey–what are you gonna do with that? You’re not going to…?” the mask jerked his head in indication at the needle in Florice’s gasp. Florice blinked, confusion cast over his expression. 

“I’m going to sew up my wound,” he glanced at the mask, raising an eyebrow. “Is there a problem…?”

The mask scratched his cheek, accidentally smudging a rivulet of ooze across his porcelain. 

“Putting holes in your skin with a needle doesn’t seem very healthy...I don’t think that’s necessary,” he insisted dully, glancing between the supplies in Florice’s grip and the exposed bloody wound piercing his side. Since the bolt had been unceremoniously wrenched out, the barb tip had torn the wound further open to about a jagged, inch and a half tear exposing the angry red tissue beneath. Dark maroon flecks of dried blood coated the wound. The skin around the premise was bruised and discolored. 

Florice narrowed his eyes, cocking his eyebrow as he bathed the mask in a bemused glare. 

“Who's the ‘doc’ here again?” 

“Hmph,” the mask folded his arms with an aggressive exhale, eyeless gaze boring into the doctor who paid him no mind and instead precisely threaded the needle in one clean, (rather impressive) swipe. He then clenched his jaw, eyes narrowed in concentration as he gingerly dipped the tip of the needle downwards and slid the thin instrument cleanly through one side of the torn skin of his wound. The opposite end of the needle poked through the other side of the gash. 

He winced, letting out a hiss of pain before he grasped the end and furiously finished the job, pulling the thread through his skin. 

His hands trembled, the tips of his gloved fingers coated in a slick layer of blood. The fingertips gripping the needle trembled unsteadily. Florice sucked in a deep breath before attempting to make a second pass through his skin, this time starting from the other side. As soon as the tip pierced his flesh the needle fell sideways in his shaking grip and his hand loosely fell to the side as he exhaled a frustrated noise. 

“Let me try,” the mask offered pleasantly, reaching out towards the doctor’s hand still clutching the needle. Florice shifted, casting the mask a dry glare. 

“You don’t know how to–”

“It’s just stitching isn’t it?”

“Well yes but I don’t expect you to know how to do that.”

With an offended noise the mask retorted heatedly. 

“Excuse you, have you forgotten where I’m from? All those sophisticated fabrics? How could I  _ not  _ know how to do simple stitches?” 

A frown tugged at the corners of Florice’s mouth. 

“Yes but–”

“I can do it. You’re in no condition to do it yourself, look at you! Your hands are shaking,” the mask pointed out. Florice sighed, glowering at the grinning mask. He’d never admit it verbally, but the mask was right. Silently, he passed over the needle before settling back and lacing his unsteady fingers together, raising the backs of his hands to rest across his eyes. 

“Please don’t mess anything up worse than it already is,” he mumbled. The mask beamed, clutching the needle in his grip. 

“Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

“I hope so.”

With these words the mask’s attention turned downwards, towards the bloody gash in the doctor’s side. He studied the thread for a moment, firelight bouncing off the thin metal needle with a faint glow. 

_ This can’t be that hard, can it? _

Carefully he guided the tip of the needle downwards, piercing one side of the wound and gingerly sliding the thin instrument out of the other side, pulling the string along and tugging the skin to a close. Florice flinched at the action but was quick to settle back down as he struggled to keep his composure. The mask paused for a moment, glancing over at Florice’s clammy expression. He wished there was a less painful alternative for this but alas, nothing was ever that easy. 

Turning his attention back to the needle in his grasp the mask moved to send another stitch through the doctor’s side. Since the pain would be impossible to null, the best alternative was to finish the job as quickly as possible. Swiftly, he pulled the bloodied thread through Florice’s side for another pass. He tugged at the stitch, drawing the gaping wound to a further close. He repeated the steps twice more until the wound was nearly sealed. His stitches were rather messy, crookedly digging through the doctor’s skin but it was a suitable job. 

As the needle dug into Florice’s bruised skin for a final pass, the doctor hissed, flinching in pain. The mask glanced up. 

“I’m almost done,” his gaze returned downwards to work at the needle. 

“You’re gonna be fine,” he absentmindedly murmured the reassurance. Florice groaned through his teeth.

“I know–”

“Shush. Be quiet and save your strength.

“You–ow–” Florice broke off in a pained hiss as the mask hastily finished the final stitch, giving the string one final tug and sealing the wound shut. Then the mask pinched off the end of the thread with his blackened fingertips. He gathered up the bloody end of the string and bundled it around the needle before reaching over and shoving the tools back into Florice’s bag resting beside him. 

Florice lowered his hands from his face and cracked open a yellow eye. Sweat rolled down his clammy cheeks. He struggled upright for a moment, peering down at the mask’s handiwork stitched into his side. The stitches oozed an inevitable few droplets of blood, matching colors with the red, aggravated skin mapped around the sealed wound. 

“Messy,” he grunted the observation before limply relaxing back against the stump once more and folding his hands to gingerly rest on his middle. 

“You’re welcome,” the mask chided, gently smacking the doctor’s pale shoulder. He sighed waving a dazed hand. 

“Yes yes…” he murmured, eyelids fluttering as a sudden drowsiness crashed over his head. He struggled to remain fully conscious, head lolling to the side. The mask felt nothing as a cold breeze rustled through the clearing but the doctor shivered, weakly crossing his arms over his chest as sweat rolled down his neck. 

“You need rest,” the mask decided abruptly after studying Florice’s sickly pale form for a moment. Florice nodded weakly, eyes fluttering shut, prepared to fall unconscious right then and there. 

“Oh no you don’t,” the mask leaned forwards, flicking the doctor’s cheek. He startled awake at the mask’s touch.

“I’m taking you to the wagon. Can you walk?” The mask asked. 

“Yes…” Florice murmured uncertainly. His gaze fell to his left and he spied his robes beside him. With one hand, he gathered up his clothes while his other hand grasped the stump behind him. He weakly gathered his legs up underneath him and made a valiant attempt to stand only to wobble forwards and dizzily lose his balance. 

“Woah–careful!” The mask hastily stepped forwards and caught him before he hit the dirt. He promptly returned Florice to his feet and gripped his forearms in order to hold him steady as he swayed. Florice mumbled something incoherent, head falling to the side as his eyelids flickered weakly. 

“Yeah yeah, come on–” the mask snatched the robes from Florice’s grasp and laid them across the doctor’s shoulders as a makeshift cloak. Florice tugged his clothes around him to ward off the cold. The mask slung an arm around Florice’s waist as he half-fell against the mask’s side. 

With the doctor now draped over his side, the mask’s eyes set upon the covered wagon just across the clearing. He stepped off, urging Florice forwards away from the stump and the fire. He gingerly tugged the doctor along and the two stumbled their way across the short clearing over to the cart. As they approached the wagon’s entrance, Florice reached out and set a gloved hand against the wood, balancing himself out.

There was a considerable step up from the forest floor to the wagon floor. 

“Can you stand on your own for a moment?”

Florice nodded vaguely, swaying as he placed both his hands on the edge of the cart. The mask’s arm slithered out from around his waist and he reached up, tugging aside the drapes covering the back entrance of the wagon. He then turned back to the doctor. 

“Come here, I’ll lift you into the wagon,” the mask gestured. Florice squinted at him with an incredulous look. 

“Pardon me?” 

The mask sighed, stepping forwards and wrapping an arm around Florice’s shoulders. Florice dazedly stared sideways at the mask’s fingers grasping his shoulder. 

“Don’t flail around, it’ll make things harder,” he warned. Florice’s gaze jerked up to meet his. 

“Wha–?”

The mask abruptly stooped down with his other arm and scooped up the doctor’s legs, effectively sweeping him off his feet. He was careful as to not upset the freshly stitched wound as the doctor shifted in his arms.

“What are you–” Florice grumbled, weakly batting at the mask’s shoulder as a droplet of black ooze splashed across his bare skin. It was all he could manage in his injured state. If he’d been in full condition, the mask wouldn’t have been allowed to carry him in such a way. 

The mask kicked up his leg and balanced his foot on the edge of the wagon floor before pushing off the ground and unsteadily stumbling up into the darkened wagon interior. Florice ceased struggling for a moment as the mask’s feet scuffed up a cloud of straw. 

“Alright. Now you can have a nice nap in here,” the mask proclaimed cheerfully, his voice muffled in the enclosed wagon. He gently lowered the doctor to the floor which coated in a thick layer of hay. Once Florice was safely settled against the straw, he slipped his arm out from under his legs and released his grip on Florice’s shoulders. 

“That was...unnecessary,” Florice mumbled darkly, sitting up, his sweaty palms balancing against the floor as he glared up at the mask who shrugged innocently.

“Oh well.” 

Florice sighed tiredly, sliding the cloak off his shoulders and carefully bundling up the fabric. Then he placed his robes in the straw behind him to act as a makeshift pillow. Gingerly tipping back, he settled limply against the hay floor, head resting uncomfortably atop his makeshift pillow. He neatly folded his hands together on his stomach and settled in, eyes flickering shut. 

“I need rest. I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured quietly to the mask. 

“Good night,” the mask replied lightly even as his words fell on deaf ears since the doctor had promptly slipped unconscious. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. In all honesty, it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out earlier from the collective blood loss and excruciating pain. 

The mask remained swaying over the doctor for a moment, quietly admiring his sleeping form on the wagon floor. Faint, warm firelight filtered in through the open drapes at the end of the wagon, casting the mask’s shadow over the doctor’s figure. Warm light gently washed over Florice’s features, his usually dark hair now aglow with a faint orange hue. 

Satisfied, the mask spun away from the doctor and quietly stepped across the crackling hay floor toward the wagon entrance. He pushed aside one of the drapes and moved to settle down at the edge of the wagon. He sat, legs dangling over the side, the tips of his boots barely brushing the forest floor. Gazing out at the other side of the clearing, he observed their small campfire and the flames still merrily flickering away. 

What a day it had been, huh? 

_ Well, at least it wasn’t boring _ .  The mask thought drily. His eyes bored into the dancing flames across the clearing as black ooze dribbled over his fingers which had come to rest under his chin. He sighed, tipping forwards in order to glance up at the foliage sparsely concealing the sky. The night sky in question was a dark blue, dotted with thousands of little white pinpricks. The mask had adjusted to this new world a quite a while ago but the sky still took him by surprise most nights. He couldn’t quite get over the coloring since in Alagadda it had always been yellow and speckled with black stars, rather than blue with white constellations.

Shifting thought, the mask glanced down at the clothes adorning his–or rather–his hosts body. He hadn’t exactly paused to observe his attire before. It consisted of wrapped, heavy fabrics–or maybe that was leather. Also a belt with an obnoxious quantity of tools swinging from loops–including a crossbow. The whole getup was rather uncomfortable actually and made a repetitive clattering noise with every movement. The mask quietly slipped off the belt, placing both it and the tools attached beside him amongst the hay. Then he began to wriggle out of the heavy layers of cloth, shrugging off the stuffy leather clothes and tossing them aside. 

Soon, he was left in loose wool slacks held up by a cord and a rather torn grey undershirt. He sucked in a deep breath and stretched out his arms, scattering a few droplets of black goo. Oh that was much better, he could actually breathe now instead of suffocating under all the heavy layers of cloth.

The mask idly swung his legs and glanced down at the undershirt, picking at the ragged fabric in distaste. Not only were the hosts in this dimension flimsy, so were the fabrics. 

A sudden rustle and stir of hay rose from behind the mask. He turned to glance back into the depths of the wagon. Florice had woken and was propped upright, groggily unfolding the bundle of robes he’d been previously using as a pillow. 

The mask gathered his legs from underneath him and rose to his feet. He turned. 

“Are you alright?” He called. 

“‘S cold,” Florice mumbled a response, visibly shivering as he managed to sling his robes around his shoulders. As he tucked his fabrics around him, the mask quietly padded across the floor before dropping to his knees at the doctor’’s side, scuffing up the hay. 

“Want any help?”

“No, I’m f–fine,” Florice paid the mask’s presence beside him little mind and instead focused intently on keeping his robes wrapped about him as he settled back down, head bumping against the wooden wagon floor. He continued to shiver, even as his eyes fluttered shut once more. 

“‘S really cold…” he muttered drowsily, clutching at his robes. The mask paused for a moment, the gears of his mind turning as he glanced down at the doctor’s shivering form curled up against the straw floor. Wayward strands of hay were entangled in his hair. 

Then, arriving at a decision. the mask exhaled a heavy sigh, a trail of black dripping down his chin. He promptly tipped back, flopping onto the wooden floor beside the doctor, scattering the straw every which way. Tapping his fingers together he stared upwards at the fabric covering the wagon far above his head. Then his fingers fell still as he glanced sideways at the doctor who was blearily eyeing him with a single cracked eyelid. 

“What’re you doing?”

“You’re cold right? I can’t feel the cold–I can’t feel anything actually. Come here, I’ll help,” the mask proclaimed cheerfully. Without waiting for the doctor’s response, the mask gingerly slid his arm under Florice’s neck and inched closer to him across the floor. 

Florice stiffened for a moment as the mask sidled up beside him. The mask’s arm was positioned just under his upper back while his hand clasped the doctor’s opposite shoulder, tugging him closer. The doctor was reluctant at first, hesitating at the mask’s sudden move but soon his head returned to rest on the straw floor and he chose to ignore the mask’s antics. 

“Come on–come here,” the mask chided, his fingers drumming against Florice’s shoulder. Florice briefly raised his head, giving the mask a bleary glare. The mask stared back, expressionless. The doctor glanced away with a grumble before giving in and shifting closer. A slight weight settled on the mask’s chest as Florice rested his cheek on the dip between the mask’s shoulder and collarbone.

Very pleased, the mask reached up with his free hand and quietly patted the doctor’s curls which barely brushed the edge of his porcelain chin. 

“Don’t do that,” Florice muttered darkly, closing his eyes as he subconsciously nestled into the mask’s side. At his word the mask’s hand fell still and his arm flopped back at his side, hitting the wooden floor with a dull thump. 

“You got it,” he stared at the ceiling as a strange warmth blossomed from his chest and spread across his limbs, settling heavily in his bones. Oddly enough, the mask had a sneaking suspicion the sensation had nothing to do with the corrosive substance actively eating away at the internal workings of his body.

“Night, doc.”

“Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next fic will be out in a week or maybe even longer. I've written about six chapters ahead of this one, and i want to try and finish rough drafting all ten fics as quick as possible cuz i dont wanna be working on this series + drawing + school. So yeah, next update might be a little longer than a week because i just wanna write as far ahead as I can.


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